The Romance Report

The Romance Report

Amy E. Lilly

The characters in this book are fictitious or are referred to in
a fictional context. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is
coincidental.

All rights reserved.
 
In
accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and
electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the
publisher constitutes unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual
property If you would like to use material from the book (other than for review
purposes), prior written permission must be obtained by contacting the
publisher.

  Library of Congress Control Number: 
 
2015914169

1
^st
Edition

©2015 Amy Lilly

Bella Lilly Press

Spanishburg, WV

Cover Art by Shari Lilly Flynn.

ISBN-13:
9780692515457

DEDICATION

For Maricruz and Laurie. They tolerate me.

Phee
Jefferson Series

Death
is Long Overdue

Summer
REading is Killing Me

Permanently
deleted (December 2015)

Stand
Alone Titles

The
Romance Report

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

My
 
eternal gratitude to my friends and family
for
 
their support and ability to ignore
me when I get crabby due to writer’s block. I couldn’t have done this without
Maricruz Baker and her mother, Ophelia. Her late night phone calls of encouragement
and her mother’s research and input helped make this book possible. And to the
inspiration for Quinn, Elizabeth
 
L. One
day she’ll know how much value she has.

CHAPTEr ONE

Quinn struggled to buckle her 3-inch black Prada
heels while holding her cell phone between her shoulder and ear. “I can’t say
no to my mother. She’s a force of nature when it comes to running my life.
Right shoes, right career, right guy. She’s making up for all of those years
that she and Dad were on the road.”

“It’s a bad idea to take a date with you to review
a restaurant,” Indie said. “I would have told her you had a meeting with your
boss or something.”

Quinn’s phone beeped indicating another call. She
looked at the screen. “I swear that woman knows when I’m talking about her.
I’ve got to go, Indie. It’s Mom.”

“Call me and let me know how the date goes.”

Quinn clicked over and answered, “Hello, Mom. Yes,
I’m wearing the dress you bought me for my birthday.”

“How did you know I was going to ask? Black is
slimming, dear.”

Quinn hopped around some more trying to buckle the
other shoe. In frustration, she tossed the phone on her unmade bed. Her
mother’s voice continued its lecture oblivious to the fact that Quinn wasn’t
listening. She buckled the straps and slipped the black dress from its hanger
and over her head. Quinn picked up the phone. “As I was saying, your father and
I don’t understand why you insisted on taking the job with this half-baked
website. We have contacts and could get you a real job.”

“It is a real job with a real magazine, Mom. The
world is changing. Publishers are moving to the digital world. I read your articles
online with my morning coffee. It’s great not traipsing out at six a.m. to get
the morning edition. I boot up my laptop and there you are.”

“What’s the name of this magazine again?”

“It’s called Under the Radar. Randall Kent, the
owner, wants to feature restaurants, clubs and shops that don’t get reviewed
but should. Tonight I’m checking out an Italian fusion restaurant called
Marlowe’s,” Quinn said.

“It’s in poor taste to mix work and dating, but
tonight was the only night Tad had free while he’s in the city. He’s on target to
make partner at the same law firm as his father. You remember T.K., dear. Your
father went on that yearly deep sea fishing trip with him and a few others.
Good family.”
      
“Yes, Mother.” Quinn answered on
autopilot. She wondered if her mom realized the only time Quinn called her Mother
was when she lectured Quinn like she was still twelve. “I promise I’ll behave
and not embarrass you. I’m sure Tad mixes business with pleasure, too. Isn’t
that what corporate lawyers do? Seal the deal over a cocktail and perhaps a
pole dancer or two?”

“Don’t be crude. I’ll talk to you tomorrow,” Anne
Daniels said curtly and hung up.

Quinn sighed again. Open mouth and insert a Prada
heel. It seemed to happen more and more these days whenever she talked to her
parents. Both worked as reporters for a national newspaper. Her dad focused on
the political scene while her mother wrote about world events. When she was
young, they were gone all of the time. Now that they were well established in
their careers, they were able to stay home more often. Quinn knew they both
expected her to follow in their footsteps and work for a big newspaper. They
didn’t understand that after she finished her degree and got a job at the local
paper, she felt lost. Her three months traveling abroad with Uncle Patrick
should have shaken her out of her funk. Instead, a lingering sense of
restlessness remained.

She finished applying her makeup and brushed her
long, dark hair into a severe ponytail. She added a deep rouge lip stain that
made her pale complexion even paler. “I might not be a fashion model, but I
wouldn’t toss me out with yesterday’s fish,” Quinn told her reflection then
blew herself a kiss.

She checked the time on her cell phone. If she
didn’t hustle, she’d be late to meet Tad. She grabbed her purse and keys and
headed out the door. As she clattered down the stairs from her apartment, she
rounded the corner and slammed right into a solid wall. A solid wall with
muscles and a hint of men’s cologne that wore a suit and tie. Her eyes moved
upward, and Quinn saw an amused smile on the face in front of her. An
attractive man with sandy brown hair and a hint of a five o’clock shadow on his
chin looked down at her. He held a leather duffel bag in one hand.

“I’m so sorry,” Quinn apologized. “I was in a
hurry to meet someone and wasn’t watching where I was going.”

“I’m sure I’ll survive the assault. I’m Zach Taylor.
I moved in last week. You must be Quinn. I meant to come introduce myself
before now, but fate has intervened and saved me from bad manners.” Zach held
out his hand. Quinn grasped it. Unlike some men, his handshake was firm without
crushing her fingers. The worst kind of handshake was the limp and clammy one.

“It’s nice to meet you. I hate to be rude, but I’m
already late for a date,” Quinn blurted out.

“I’d hate to keep the lucky guy waiting. Stop by
for coffee and a chat anytime. It’s been a pleasure meeting you,” Zach said.

“You, too. And again, I’m really sorry for
barreling into you. Bye!” Quinn gave a quick wave with her hand and headed down
the next flight of stairs.

Exiting her brownstone, she looked around for a
cab. Not spotting one, she strode down the sidewalk towards downtown. After two
blocks at a breakneck pace, Quinn’s feet already ached. The heels she wore
might be smoking hot, but they were torture devices as far as she was
concerned. She’d rather wear a pair of flip flops than heels of this height.
Marlowe’s was at least ten more blocks away. Thank goodness she spotted a cab
letting off a fare. She whistled and hobbled her way down the sidewalk to grab
it. A few blissful minutes off her feet later, the cab delivered her to the
restaurant.

Quinn spotted Tad Kincaid at a table in the far
corner of the restaurant, and waving away the hostess, she made her way to the
table. “Sorry I’m late, Tad. I ran into my new neighbor as I headed out the
door.”

“I was thinking you had stood me up. There’s a first
time for everything,” Tad said. He reached up a hand and smoothed his blonde
hair. Quinn hadn’t seen him since he was a teenager. He had changed little in
the intervening years. He still sported the same clean-cut, All-American male
looks he did when he was seventeen. She wondered if his ego was the same as
well.

“I’m sorry,” Quinn said again as she sat down
across from him. She longed to take off the offending heels. Her feet felt like
two giant sweet potatoes fresh out of a hot oven. She needed to loosen the
straps before they exploded out of the Prada shoes. “It’s been a long time. You
look good.”

“Thanks.” Tad preened. He leaned forward and
whispered, “What’s the deal with this restaurant? The chef came out a little
while ago and I swear he looked like he got released from a prison chain gang.
He had more tattoos and piercings than a biker. If you want to go somewhere
else, we can.”

Quinn reached down and tried to unfasten the buckle
on her shoes. “Todd Marlowe is supposed to be the up and coming chef in Italian
fusion food. He’s edgy and modern. He went to a top cooking school in Paris,
not Prison Cooking 101 class. I’m sure it’ll be fine.” She pretended to get
something from her purse. She grabbed the offending buckle, yanked it open and
eased her foot out of the shoe. Quinn glanced down and saw Tad was wearing a
pair of Gucci loafers. Without socks. Not even no show socks from what she
could tell. Appalled by the imagined stench of his leather bound sweaty feet,
she accidentally banged her head on the table as she hurried to rid herself of
the image of Tad’s toes. “Ouch!”

“Are you okay?” Tad said with what seemed more
like annoyance than concern.

“I’m fine. I was trying to turn my cell phone off so
it wouldn’t disturb us,” Quinn lied.

“Good. There’s nothing I hate more than someone
talking nonstop on their phone during dinner. I’m an attorney. My clients need
constant access to me, but I draw the line at having the phone on at dinner,”
Tad said with a self-important tone. “So, Quinn, what have you been doing since
the last time I saw you…what was it? Ten years ago?”

“Just about. If I recall correctly, it was your
brother Rodney’s sixteenth birthday party. You were home from university and
didn’t have time for silly teenagers.”

“Well,” Tad chuckled, “you know what it’s like
with little brothers and sisters. They’re annoying until they finish puberty.”

“Not really,” Quinn said. She guessed Tad forgot
she was an only child. The waiter arrived and handed them menus.

“My name is Jack and I’ll be your waiter this
evening. Our special is a Shrimp Fra Diavolo. It’s jumbo shrimp served in a
spicy marinara sauce and garnished with mussels, clams and basil. Would you
like to see our wine list?”

“Yes,” Quinn started.

“No, that’s unnecessary. We’d like a glass of your
house red to start, and I’ll take prime rib, rare, with a baked potato and
green beans.”

“Sir, we don’t serve prime rib,” Jack said, confusion
on his face.

“You don’t serve prime rib? Really? Quinn, your
mother said you reviewed high-end restaurants online. What four-star restaurant
doesn’t serve prime rib?”

“This is an Italian fusion restaurant. It’s
Italian with a Caribbean flair, not English,” Quinn explained. “And I try not
to let the restaurant realize I’m writing about their food. It screws the pooch
if you do.”

Tad’s face twisted in consternation as he absorbed
what Quinn said. “Hmmm…I’m not familiar with Italian fusion food, but what the
heck, I’m nothing if not open-minded. Jack, give us a few minutes and get back
to us. In the meantime, if you could bring us the house red, that’d be great.”

“Jack, one moment. Could you bring me a glass of
Chardonnay, please? House is fine, but a glass of water with a twist of lemon
to go with it would be outstanding.”

“Certainly. I’ll be right back.” Jack almost
saluted as he turned and hurried away from what was turning into a tense evening.

Quinn looked over the top of her menu at Tad. He
was exactly the kind of guy her mom would adore. Clean-cut, well-educated, and
a good job. A solid middle-class male. She could even see the start of a
receding hairline. Tad would be bald as his dad by forty. He was probably
boring as hell, too. His father, T.K., was. Quinn shook her head. She had
promised her mother she would give Tad a chance. After her last boyfriend
disaster, anything would be an improvement. Thomas, the hot guitarist, turned
out to be a little too hot for her to handle. Actually, the items in his
apartment were hot. Quinn considered herself lucky that he’d only “borrowed”
her bedroom television and not everything she owned. She shook her head as she
remembered his telephone call asking her for bail money. No more artists or
musicians, Quinn promised herself. From now on she planned to date nice, normal
men with boring day jobs.

“Earth to Quinn. Hello? Is anyone home?”

Quinn realized Tad had been speaking to her. “I’m
sorry,” Quinn apologized for what seemed like the hundredth time that day. “I’m
trying to decide what to order. Everything looks so good.”

“I’ll stick with the seafood fettucine. Half the
stuff on the menu doesn’t even sound like food. I’m a meat and potatoes guy
with a little pasta now and then. I’m made in America. I like American food. Nothing
weird like octopus or snails for this guy. I run and lift weights three days a
week. I like to load on the carbs before a run, but give me a juicy rib eye and
I’m fat, dumb and happy,” Tad said.

“Wow. I’m impressed. You’re in great shape.” Quinn
threw the proverbial dog a bone. See, Mother, I can flirt with the best of
them.

“Yep. Sitting behind a desk all day isn’t good for
the old arteries even at my age. Besides, love the old man, but his spare tire
is not something I plan to inherit.” Tad patted his flat stomach. He made sure
to lean forward and subtly flex his chest muscles. Quinn tried not to grimace.
 

Jack returned with the glasses of wine and Quinn’s
water. “I hope you’ll find our house wines to your liking. The owner takes
particular pride in stocking the wine cellar with outstanding vintages. Our
house wines come from a small winery in the Virginia Piedmont.”

Quinn sipped her wine and nodded in appreciation.
“It’s wonderful. Just the right amount of oak with a hint of smokiness.”

“Not bad. Jack, I’d like the seafood fettucine.
Quinn?”

“I’ll be adventurous tonight. I’d like the wild
boar
asado
with sour orange mojo. I love plantains and can’t wait to try
this dish.”

“Superb choice, madam. May I suggest a Grenache
with your meal. It pairs well with the wild boar,” Jack said. “We have one from
Pasado Vineyards I guarantee you will love.”

“Sounds great. I’ll trust your judgment.”

“Excellent.” Jack took their menus and headed
towards the kitchen.

“You realize that they suggest those wines to up
sell you. I guarantee you the wine he suggested is one of the more expensive
wines on the list,” Tad informed her.

Quinn bit back the urge to call Tad a tight wadded
twit. She picked up her glass of wine and took her time sipping it. “Don’t
worry,” she said, her voice sticky with saccharine sweetness, “it’s on my
expense account. This is a business dinner, not a date.”

Tad let out an annoyed huff. “I can afford any
wine this place serves. I was trying to be helpful. I waited tables at a swanky
restaurant during undergrad. Dad thought it would build character for me to
earn my spending money.”

“Writing about food and wine is how I make my
bread and butter,” Quinn replied, feeling guilty for not being nicer to Tad.
Maybe he was trying to be helpful. Lots of people didn’t know about the
restaurant business or wine. Perhaps he wasn’t the jerk he used to be. She
blamed the sockless loafers. They screamed spoiled son of the country club set.
She wondered how the leather didn’t shrink from the sweaty feet. “Plus, I spent
three months touring the restaurants of Italy and Spain with my uncle who's a
chef.”